


Power of the Heart, or Eliot Sings a Song so Beautiful that even Sisyphus Stops Rolling his Boulder

by get_sunny



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alice Quinn & Eliot Waugh Friendship, Angst with a Happy Ending, But we undo it, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent-post 5x03, Canonical Character Death, Eliot Rescues Quentin, Eliot Waugh Deserved Better, Feelings, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Quentin Coldwater Deserved Better, References to Depression, Season 5 AU, Soulmates, up to 5x03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/get_sunny/pseuds/get_sunny
Summary: “Peter Gabriel?”“Hades seems like the type of god who would listen to Genesis.”****With some help from a bookstore owner, Eliot journeys to the Underworld to retrieve Quentin Coldwater.(My contribution to all of the Orpheus and Eurydice fix-it fics that I have become a total hoe for.)
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Power of the Heart, or Eliot Sings a Song so Beautiful that even Sisyphus Stops Rolling his Boulder

Part One

True Names

Eliot Meets a (Jellicle) Cat; a book finds him.

_"The name is the thing, and the true name is the true thing. To speak the name is to control the thing." - Ursula Le Guin_

The Wordsmith’s Exchange was shoved between a Chinese restaurant and a tattoo parlor. The narrow storefront, painted a nondescript navy blue was nearly unnoticeable amongst the brilliant neon signs surrounding it. Eliot had almost overtaken the bookstore entirely. The large latticed bay window was covered in fliers advertising various events and local businesses, among them a yoga class at the studio down the street and a poetry slam that happened the previous week. Books, old and new, were propped on stands in front of the window, advertising the wares of the shop. Eliot’s eyes lingered on a shabby first edition copy of _The Uses of Enchantment_ by Bruno Bettelheim and thought uselessly that this would have been a place he would have liked to find with Quentin.

He did that sometimes. Imagined an impossible future where he and Quentin had world enough and time, as they say. Where he had had the chance to confess his deceit in the throne room, to beg forgiveness for his foolishness, and to spend the rest of his life proving himself worthy of Quentin. He imagined dates at bookstores in the city; jaunts to Fillory to visit Margo; hazy drunken nights with their friends--he thinks that they might have become one of those boring couples that only went out for trivia nights; a warm apartment to come home to at night filled only with books and soft things. 

They could--and should--have had so much time.

Eliot glanced at the card Dean Fogg had given him after he had shoved him out of the Brakebills library earlier that day. Eliot had spent weeks scouring the stacks for something--anything--in the books on Horomancy that might circumvent the numerous problems with changing the past. Alice had been right, _of course_ , the letter wouldn’t work--what would he even say to Quentin besides the three words tearing at the corners of his agonized mind like some kind of caged animal? _Run faster? Don’t be a hero; let one of your friends make that sacrifice?_ No, it never would have worked, when given the choice, Quentin would always deem his safety, and life, less than that of others.

“I see you are finding the limits of time magic,” Dean Fogg had intoned gravely as Eliot flung the book he was reading off to the side and picked up a new volume from a dwindling pile.

“Do you need something?” Eliot said without looking up at Henry. 

“Go home, Mr. Waugh. You won’t find what you are looking for here.”

“Not that it is any of your business, but you couldn’t possibly know what I am looking for.”

“You have a stack of Horomancy books. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you are trying to find a way to save Mr. Coldwater without altering anything else in the future, so that his sacrifice would not have been in vain.”

Eliot turned the page of the book, not processing a single word he was reading. He blinked back the bite of tears. “I can’t just do nothing. Everyone is just moving forward, like--but he was our _friend._ He was _my_ \--my friend, and he died saving me.”

Dean Fogg sighed and placed his hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “Eliot, you don’t need to lie to me about the nature of your relationship with Quentin. You might have forgotten, but I am the only person alive that is able to remember all thirty-nine iterations of your unrequited bullshit with Quentin Coldwater.”

“What?”

“In every variation of the time loop, the two of you drifted together--inexorably; and in spite of the circumstances; in spite of the changes Jane made to the loop, you and Quentin fell in love with varying degrees of disastrous consequences for your friends and the rest of the world.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Eliot shook his head. One half-remembered life that he will never get to experience with Quentin was nearly too much to bear. But thirty-nine time loops where he had fallen in love with him--he might die from the tightness in his chest.

“I just want you to know that I understand how you must be feeling because I have seen you lose him before, and I have seen Quentin lose you before. I know what this grief does to you. I know how you go mad in this library trying to save him.”

“Just because you have seen me grieve my-- _Quentin_ , doesn’t mean you understand. You can’t understand.”

“Regardless, you can’t change the past without negating everything Quentin did to save you, so time magic is not an option.”

“Then what, Henry? I give up? I let Quentin _stay_ dead?” Eliot rounded on his former mentor. Henry remained unmoved by Eliot’s emotional outburst. In fact, he looked bored, as if he had stood in this spot of the Library, having this exact conversation with Eliot before.

“I’m not suggesting that you give up, Mr. Waugh, and while I can’t kick you out of the library because, technically, you are still a student, I _can_ point you in a different direction.” Henry Fogg extracted a card from within the inner pocket of his tailored suit and held it out for Eliot to take with his shaking fingers.

“An alumni of Brakebills. A Knowledge student with a very specialized discipline. She might be able to help you.”

Which was how Eliot ended up standing in front of a quaint bookstore in the East Village. He glanced at the library cart in front of the shop filled with free books, if the sign taped to the cart was

anything to go by, and plucked a battered mass market paperback of _The World in the Walls_ from the cart. He flipped through the yellowing, dog-eared pages, pausing briefly to read the cramped writing in the margins. It wasn’t Quentin’s meticulous marginalia, chronicling the changes made from edition to edition, but if he squinted just-so in the bleak midwinter afternoon light, it could almost be Quentin’s hurried writing. He brought the book up to his nose and breathed in the dusty smell. He hoped finding this was a good omen, though he didn’t really go in for those things anymore. How could he?

Clutching the paperback in his hands, he stepped through the door. The heavy air and the pages of books swallowed the muted tinkle of the bell above the door; the sound barely traveled at all. If the air of Fillory tasted lighter because of the magic opium, then the air here tasted like a different, sadder kind of magic. 

Eliot’s sorrow felt more palpable in the doorway of the bookstore. He felt three times his age here, like the old man he both was and was not.

Shelves taller than Eliot lined the walls, and a labyrinth of shorter shelves filled what was left of the available floor space, nooks filled with squat armchairs hidden among the aisles. Books were crammed on every available space of the shelves, and stacked in precarious piles on the floor when they no longer fit on the shelves.

“Be with you in a minute,” a voice called from somewhere up above him, and Eliot noticed the narrow, tightly-spiraling cast-iron staircase in the back corner of the store, which must have led to a loft above Eliot.

Eliot began to peruse the nearest bookshelf. His fingers traced the spines of the books as he moved down the shelf. Eliot could find no discernible rhyme or reason to the chaotic assortment of books. A slow cooker cookbook, _Breakfast for Champions_ by Vonnegut, _A Journey to the End of Night_ by Celine, and a Jimi Hendrix biography were all shelved next to each other. Eliot paused, lingering over a copy of Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_.

“They’re charmed, so you find exactly what you need,” a quiet voice said from somewhere near his elbow. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eliot startled, clutching at his chest. He glared down at the girl who had appeared at his side. She blinked up at him from behind large, round glasses.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said as the silence between them lengthened and became awkward.

“You’re fine. I wasn’t paying attention—did you say charmed?” Eliot thought the girl looked a bit young to be a Hedge, but who was he to judge? Well, he had judged Hedges before, Julia, in particular, a few years ago, but now he _understood_ the moral dubiousness of Brakebills and the Library gatekeeping who could practice magic. Empathized with the rotten hand Hedge Witches were dealt, and fully supported Kady’s reign as Top Bitch in New York. So, see-- _growth_ , albeit growth that had probably happened too late, and not in any way that really mattered, but Quentin might have been proud if he could see how damn hard he was trying to be better. To be braver.

The girl ignored Eliot’s question and glanced at the copy of _Metamorphoses_ that he had nearly pulled off the shelf. “Do you need this for a class?”

The book felt warm under his fingers. He shook his head, “No. Actually, I was looking for someone. I’m not here for a book.”

“It’s a shame. In general, people only _need_ this book for a class or to satisfy a passing interest in Greek mythology. No offense--you don’t look like the type to have a sudden interest in Ancient Greek poetry.”

“Guilty. I’m not much of a reader,” Eliot said, and yet his mind rebelled against putting the book back on the shelf. “I--I had a friend. He was the reader. I used to get the Cliffnotes version from him.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yes--about that, I _am_ looking for someone. An alumni from my graduate school? Molly?”

“Yes, Henry said he might be sending someone my way.”

“You’re Molly?” 

Her smile was thin and brittle, and she spread her arms out, as if she were inviting Eliot’s critique of her magic,“I’m not a very impressive Magician, sorry.”

“No, it isn’t that at all.” The thing was, Molly was _tiny_ , tinier than Margo or Alice by a few inches, and the oversized cardigan and t-shirt only shrunk her further. Eliot thought he had been talking to a teenager, not a woman several years his senior. “Sorry. I’m Eliot.”

Molly dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. “Let’s go talk somewhere the muggles can’t overhear us.”

She led him through the bookstore, toward the spiral staircase. “You see,” she told him as they began to ascend the narrowly twisting staircase, “the first floor is all of your usual bookstore fare: literary fiction, science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, romance and erotica, poetry, literary criticism, etcetera, etcetera--you get the point--but up here...well, we have the second largest collection of magical texts, second only to the Library. 

“We have the basic texts: Popper, McCabe, Livingston--whatever a young Magician needs to get started on their journey; we also have an extensive collection of specialized and rare volumes that I have... _sourced_ , if you will, with the help of some freelancers from several private collections and marketplaces.”

Eliot glanced above him and was surprised how high the staircase spiraled up above them still. In fact, the staircase seemed to spin up infinitely with no end in sight. He glanced behind him and became dizzy when he realized how far the ground was below them.

“Eyes forward, Eliot. It is easy to get disoriented on these stairs. Always look forward.”

“How high up do they go exactly?”

“As high as they need to. We, however, are going straight to the top--to my workshop. Shouldn’t be too much further, though. I had a magical architect design the floors to grow or shrink based on inventory; I think we only have twelve floors, at the moment. Do you still have _Metamorphoses_?”

Eliot glanced down, surprised to find the book still clutched in his hands. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Since you don’t seem to have any interest in myth or poetry, we will just assume that you found the book because we will need it. Tell me, have you been transformed in any way, recently?”

 _Quentin_ . _I lost Quentin_. He thought about Quentin shattering in the Mirror World in a rain of a million, trillion sparks and waking up in the empty infirmary and hearing whispered voices in the room beyond where he was resting and knowing with a chilling certainty in his gut that whatever was beyond that door would change him forever. 

He wished he could go back to the moment before the door opened. He had been exhausted, and the jagged hole in his abdomen where the monster had been torn out of him pained him with every breath, but he had been filled with so much fire. After Margo told him in a quiet, shaking voice what had happened in the Mirror World, something flickered out inside him. He knew that whatever had gone out, it would never be turned back on.

“I was possessed by a monster.”

Molly hummed thoughtfully. “But you’re no longer possessed?”

“No. That’s fixed.” They finally stepped up onto a landing with a single door. Molly retrieved a key from a pocket of her cardigan, and unlocked the door, stepping aside to let Eliot in. 

“Sorry about the mess. Fogg told me you might be stopping by, but he didn’t say when, so nothing is tidy.”

It would be more apt to say Molly’s workshop was really her apartment. Eliot stepped into a round, sun-filled room. Book-filled shelves covered the walls entirely and a long, low green velvet couch took up the center of the room. A large, orange and white tabby slept, curled up in the sunlight on the worn Persian rug, her fluffy paws and tail hiding most of her face; a slinky, pure white cat with bright eyes stared down at Eliot from the top of a bookshelf.

“That is her majesty, the Queen Celeste, and Monsieur Monroe,” Molly stepped over the orange and white cat, who lifted her head and chirped lazily as Molly sat on the couch. She indicated the space next to her for Eliot to sit. As Eliot perched on the edge of the low sofa, feeling as if his knees were around his ears, Celeste jumped onto his lap and shoved her furry head under his hands, purring furiously.

“As familiars go, they are both pretty useless. Though, Celeste is a certified therapy animal, and I have recently discovered that Monroe can predict the magical surges, but that may be general nervousness.” Molly frowned as she watched her cat bully Eliot into rubbing her head.

Celeste had both paws on his chest, and her head curled under his neck, her purrs a steady pulse. Eliot relaxed back into the couch to accommodate his new found friend’s insistent affection.

“She is very friendly.”

“Quite. We volunteer a couple times a month at the VA and some women's shelters. She has a knack for helping people suffering from PTSD.”

Eliot hummed. Margo had implied that perhaps he ought to talk to someone, if not her, because of the amount of trauma he had recently gone through; by those standards, honestly, they should all be seeking some professional help. They’d all gone through the same shit, basically. He just had the added bonus of possession and a dead almost, not-quite lover. He is surprised that Fogg would be the person to trick him into seeking help, but maybe guilt over Quentin was catching up to him. 

“So, is that your thing?” Eliot asked.

“Sorry. My thing?” Molly blinked. The size of her glasses made her eyes appear impossibly large and innocent. He felt like he was interrogating a child.

“Yeah, has Henry finally sent me to a magical shrink to deal with my forty timelines worth of trauma?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Molly said. She stood up and walked over to a long work table covered with books that were in the process of being rebound and the mechanical pieces of a disassembled typewriter. There were also about 20 different dictionaries in various languages open on the tables with hasty notes scribbled into the margins.“Besides, I am far from qualified to help you with your mental health issues.”

The white cat—Monroe—leapt from his spot on the top of the bookshelf, landing on the table beside Molly. His eyes never not watching Eliot. Eliot tried to shift himself away from the cat's gaze, unnerved. 

“So, you’re not—”

“A shrink? Heavens, no. No, I was a knowledge student at Brakebills. My discipline was leximancy.”

“Ah.” Eliot nodded sagely as he scratched Celeste behind the ears. “Of course, and remind those of us that might have forgotten, what, exactly, a leximancer _does._ ”

Molly smiled at Eliot, like that bitch just _knew_ Eliot had zero idea what _leximancy_ was, Eliot thought. “Word magic, essentially. Specifically, I studied the transfer of intention in translations of incantations.”

Eliot—not for the first time—wondered why Dean Fogg would send him _here_ , to a bookstore with an alumni that practiced _word magic_ , whatever that meant. 

“Yeah, you’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Eliot drawled.

“So, you’ve heard about true names, right?”

“Pretend I have.”

“Oh my God, you really don’t read, do you?”

Eliot smiled blandly. Something about Molly, in the self-conscious hunch of her shoulders, and the exuberance that sometimes seemed to take her while explaining the magic in her bookshop, or the books, themselves felt familiarly, painfully, like Quentin. It felt like a balm, like he might be able to sink into the old ebb and flow of familiar banter, even though it wasn't with the person he truly wanted to be talking to. “Cliffnotes it for me.”

Molly sighed and thumbed through the pages of a dictionary, as if she were looking for inspiration. “I guess one of the most well-known examples--culturally--would be, like, Rumplestiltskin, who gave the King and Queen three days to guess his true name. The idea being that everyone has a true name, or like, essence, and to be able to wield power over them, you must know their essential essence and then name it.”

Eliot nodded. “Oh--like Jellicle cats.”

“Seriously, you know T.S. Eliot?”

“Who? No, I know Andrew Lloyd Weber.”

“Oh, God.” Molly groaned, and Eliot allowed himself to sink into this familiar banter. It was with the wrong person, “Okay, yeah, it’s like the Jellicle cats, but for all--So, there is magic inherent in every word in human language, but to unlock that word you need to understand the truth of the word. It isn’t enough to say things like “desire” or “yearn”, you need to truly understand the essence of it; what it really means to desire something or yearn for something body, mind, and soul. I have a knack at unlocking the inherent magic in a word.”

Eliot watched Molly move around the room, pulling books off the shelves around her. He felt a kind of hopelessness settle into his gut. _That’s it?_ The best alternative to time travel that Henry Fogg could think of was word magic? He thought of the book in his hand that he had apparently been led to out of necessity, so maybe Fogg thought that she could give him a book from her vast collection of stolen, black market spell books that weren’t available through the Brakebills Library.

“I’m going to be honest, I don’t know why Henry sent me here,” Eliot said slowly. “I mean, unless you have some Horomancy books that the Brakebills Library doesn’t have.”

Molly thumbed through a book she just pulled off of a shelf before shaking her head and placing it back with a shake of her head. “It is very likely. I don’t have a large collection of Horomancy books, but it is a varied and rare collection. Why are you meddling with time, Eliot?”

And wasn’t that the million dollar question? 

“My friend, the reader, he--uh, he died, recently. Doing something brave to save me, and I--I can’t accept that.”

Molly nodded. Her gaze felt unnervingly somber, like she was able to discern what Eliot wasn’t saying about “his friend”. “I’m sorry.”

“So, I don’t know if you can help me. I don’t know if you have a book that I haven’t already looked at that will allow me to change everything. Fuck, if you even had a way to make me forget everything, I would take that. Erasing him would be better than this—this pain. It has to be, right?”

Molly frowned, took her glasses off. “You don’t mean that,” she said quietly.

“How do you know I don’t?” Eliot bristled. 

“Because I do.” Molly said, her voice sure. “It might take away the pain briefly, and you might be able to fall back into whatever life you had before your friend, but there will be a piece of you missing, and your body, your mind, will want to be whole again. You will miss something for which you have no language, and it will eat you.”

Eliot slumped back into the couch. “I don’t want to forget him,” he admitted. It felt like defeat. If he couldn’t find a way to save Quentin, he would rather live with the pain of having known and having loved him deeply and ardently. He’d rather feel all the exquisite pain that came from a life, or several, of loving and losing Quentin, than no memory of him at all. Quentin had, in ways he was still learning, changed him, and he didn’t know if he could go back to the insouciant hedonist that he had been before meeting shy, earnest Quentin Coldwater. 

“I think I might have an idea of why Dean Fogg sent you to me,” Molly said. “But first, tell me about your friend.”

Eliot took a deep breath, and thought of a warm square “His name was Quentin…”


End file.
